Corspe and Robbers
by Rinelle Venus
Summary: The entire security of the British nation is in the hands of an obnoxious control freak and his inquisitive secretary who keeps getting kidnapped. Together they'll face fearless foes; enstranged singers, barmy drug-barons and malicious mobsters. All to prevent an enemy of evil intent from taking over the world. So basically just your average Tuesday.
1. chapter 1

27th March at 00:04 am

 _Breaking in was easy, he knew all the passwords, where the 'hidden' motion sensors were, even the camera's blind spots. In no time at all he was inside the vault. Feeling calmer - now the thrilling sense of_ _adrenaline_ _and the theme tune to Mission Impossible had died down - he strolled past the silver shelving units towards his destination. In the end it was too easy. Open the drawer, pick up the box, hide it in his rucksack, and just walk away. He felt a glowing sense of pride as he exited the vault soundlessly, retracing his steps to escape undetected. Once outside, feeling the cool breeze of the March evening he chuckled briefly, enjoying imaging the havoc he would wreak on the world._

Mycroft

29th March at 09:42 am

It was raining. It was always raining. His breath fogged up the glass as he overlooked the bustling London thoroughfare from the safety and comfort of the government headquarters. As usual the streets were full of activity despite the clouds' repetitive onslaught. Looking down, he was able to see the limitless chaotic crowds of people moving through the capital. Confused tourists frantically darted from place to place in frenzy, trying to assert their bearings. Hectic shoppers paraded their purchases from shop to shop whilst exclaiming loudly that; "It was raining!" Meanwhile, in the center of this commotion, taxi drivers tried to persuade pedestrians with relief from the rain. Mycroft sighed. The British public never ceased to both frustrate and amaze him. Below him they scuttled about their business, like ants, unaware that just above, a serious meeting was taking place. A meeting that could mean life or death -

"Mr Holmes? Shall we resume our discussion?"

At the sound of his name, Mycroft turned to face the speaker and replied; "Of course." And then hurriedly added; "My apologies, sir." The last thing he wanted to do was irritate Firth. He stepped away from the window, cursing himself for letting his mind wander, and returned to sit opposite the imposing and impeccably varnished oak desk, on the other side of which sat his superior.

The entire office was furnished in luxury and good taste. The heavy drapes that bordered the windows helped to highlight his boss' lavish lifestyle whilst his prosperous preferences became apparent through the pricey portraits placed at exact angles on the wall.

On the other hand, there was not a lot known about Firth, except for what you could see. The man sat across from him was in his mid-fifties, wearing a professionally tailored suit and expensive-looking shoes that – in all likelihood - had never met with the pavement below. His haircut emphasized his affluent aspects as it was trained to lie smartly, in strict regiments, atop his head. Apart from one or two grey streaks, his hair had remained the same as long as Mycroft could remember; formal and controlled – much like the man himself. His skin was pale and lacked a healthy glow, revealing how he'd spent most of his life indoors. Even his eyes embodied exacting levels of formality; they were flat, grey and appeared lifeless. His gaze was icy and hostile but Mycroft was forced to hold it whilst they talked.

"Now of course I must accentuate the importance of conducting business as usual these coming weeks," Firth began in his usual curt and direct manner. "Of course there will be some slight alterations to the way things are done but it will be for the greater good, after all."

"Yes sir, I agree entirely." Mycroft responded absentmindedly, only half paying attention and really wishing he was someplace else.

But Firth obviously had more to say because he cleared his throat and added, almost as an afterthought: "I have also agreed to welcome a new member of staff to our ever expanding personnel, that you may be pleased to hear, will be employed as your new personal secretary."

This time, Mycroft could only nod.

"It'll finally help you to organise that ever expanding archive of documents, collecting dust in your office" Firth continued, oblivious to Mycroft's discontent, "Providing, of course, she passes the test. Although I personally hand-picked her from her references; so she's certainly a very promising candidate. She's American; top of her class at Oxford, fluent in at least five languages at least and by all accounts a lovely lady, judging by her references - an excellent addition to our staff."

"Yes, sir." He responded reluctantly, unsure why he was only being told this now. Firth reached across the desk, hand outstretched. "Excellent. I'll ensure she finds her way to your office soon. Perhaps you should go and tell reception where to send her when she arrives. It was wonderful speaking with you again, Mr Holmes." He gestured for Mycroft to leave.

Mycroft left feeling far worse than he had when he came in. _A secretary,_ he thought, _why would he need a secretary?_


	2. Chapter 2

Anthea

29th March at 09:56 am

Oh no! For goodness sake, it was her first day. How could she be late on her first day? Well, the answer was simple: she'd overslept. On top of that, her hair was a mess! She'd tried to tame it into a bun but eventually had to give up and leave it hanging loose around her shoulders. Great, now she was going to look like a haystack! But she didn't have time to worry about it now because she'd also managed to smear marmalade down her brand new navy pencil skirt. She just succeeded in rubbing off most of the marmalade and covering up most of her facial imperfections before literally running late out of the door.

Fortunately enough she didn't live far from the train station seeing how it was chucking it down. _It never rained as heavy as this back home_ , she thought, and felt a sudden pang when she realized how much she missed it. She had to sprint the last hundred meters, cursing herself for neglecting her umbrella and was glad to enter the welcoming warmth of Marylebone Station.

Iron and steel girders arched above her head broken only by the huge industrial sized lamps. Pigeons swooped and fell through the intense industrialized architecture, picking at the scraps of snacks people had abandoned on benches. Anthea just weaved in and out of the crowds, letting the flow of people carry her to the Underground. As she traipsed through the throngs she observed the neat regiments of trains arriving and leaving on cue, for the best part in complete correspondence to the digital train timetable on display in the station's entrance. The black and orange blinking lights commanded potential passengers, huddles of people were hanging on to its every digitalised word – groaning and moaning about being late for this or not having enough time for that. Despite the odd dismembered pedestrian who seemed unwilling to trust the towering timetable everyone who Anthea passed had a purpose, a destination in mind. She saw businessmen armed with their briefcases and smart suits, couples clasping hands, sharing secrets and cups of coffee and families with small children who were eager for adventure. One day, Anthea promised herself, once she'd saved enough, she'd board a train to somewhere – anywhere – she didn't care and have an adventure. But for today she had to work.

After a grueling train journey and with her feet feeling rubbed raw in her poshest heels she finally made it to the office building where she was due ten minutes ago. As she wrenched open the doors in the most professional way possible she caught a glimpse of her reflection and was quietly horrified. The rain had destroyed any attempt she might have made to arrange her hair nicely whilst her cheeks were flushed from fleeing from the rain. Nevertheless, she continued her brisk pace and approached the sleek reception desk. Attempting to appear apologetic she coughed politely yet professionally and recited the speech she had prepared on the train. "Excuse me? Sorry but I'm here for my first day … I'm afraid I might be a little late, but it was unavoidable … You see I was –"

But she was talking to thin air. No one occupied the leather swivel-chair in front of her. _Well this is weird,_ she thought. _Where is everybody?_ She opened her bag to retrieve the crumpled confirmation of the address and re-read it just be sure. Yep, there it was in black and white: Oxford Street, Number 48, Trelawnley House, Third floor … She was in the right place. Anthea returned the letter to the safety of her handbag and slowly meandered behind the desk. With no one in sight she might as well take a quick look!

Sitting at the desk she felt rather guilty, but this soon became confusion when she tapped the keyboard to wake up the expensive-looking computer screen, only to realize it wasn't even plugged in! Now she was beginning to suspect this job wasn't what it seemed. The letter offering the secretary post had been vague to say the least, not detailing actual duties but instead describing "A rewarding and worthwhile experience for such a gifted young woman." She cursed herself for falling for the scam. Feeling disheartened and still damp from the rain, she stood up and decided to leave only to notice something strange out of the corner of her eye.

It was a mirror. Well, it should have a mirror, but it wasn't reflecting the right room. The layout of the room was exactly the same; the same contemporary reception desk, the same potted plants dotted at odd intervals around the room and the same door in the same place. But there was one difference, and it was a rather big difference. She wasn't in it. But that couldn't be, could it? In trepidation, she approached the looking glass. It was rectangular in shape and about two feet across, a foot high and was bordered by a silver-embossed frame. Standing in front of it she stretched out her left hand … but nothing happened. Her fingers didn't meet any barriers; they just passed through thin air. _It's not a mirror,_ she realized; _it's a doorway._

And with that she climbed through the mirror-frame.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft

29th March at 09:54 am

Now that he was out of Firth's office, Mycroft felt like he could breathe again. He couldn't quite describe the sensation, but if he had to pick one word it would be suffocating. He wasn't sure why, but there was something about that room that made him feel as if he was choking. He quickened his pace now that he had turned the corner of the corridor leading out of Firth's office and continued down the adjacent hallway leading to reception.

Unwittingly his thoughts returned to Firth. Since joining the government operation here in London eleven years ago, Mycroft understood one thing: Firth ran the whole operation. Always had and always would. There was no one of higher authority. Firth was the head of MI5; the covert government operations, the security of the British nation, the freedom of its people would be nothing without him. He was ruthless and driven only by the job. Mycroft had always been sure that Firth knew what he was doing - which was why this new secretary unnerved had him slightly. What on Earth was Firth playing at? It usually took weeks to hire new staff so why the rush? Why was Firth acting so impulsive all of a sudden?

Since the meeting earlier today, Mycroft hadn't stopped repeating those words over and over in his head; 'personally hand-picked … very promising candidate … excellent addition to our staff.' _A secretary,_ he thought to himself again, _why would he need a secretary?_ He shook his head as if to physically shake the idea out of his mind to consider later. He had other priorities right now.

The reception was fairly stereotypical of an office corporation. Neutral color schemes and lack of ornamentation could fool any average man into believing they really were 'just another office' job. Mycroft found it amusing just how unobservant people could be.

"Maltravers? Can you make sure my new secretary finds her way to my office please?" He asked - leaning over her desk in what he hoped was a professional yet authoritative position.

The woman he was addressing took only a mere glance away from the computer screen she was completely engrossed in. "Yes Mr Holmes, I'll see to it immediately. At least when she arrives that is, she's running late. Or perhaps the mirrors trick's fooled her." She smiled to herself, and Mycroft was reminded of a reptile about to devour its prey. Then her attention was drawn back to the flashing screen once again, her meticulously manicured fingers dancing over its keyboard. Mycroft realized she must see many people enter the appropriately dubbed 'dummy' room and not realize the real reception was in fact next door.

Maltravers was known to the employees of her Majesty's Secret Service as the 'bouncer' of the business. She was the secretary that prevented all sorts of riff-raff from entering the save-haven of the government offices. There was no doubt, certainly in Mycroft's mind, that despite her blunt attitude she was very effective at what she did. The whole operation would fall apart without her organisation for sure. The only thing that bothered Mycroft was how he never saw her wearing anything other than the same clothes; a sleek and business-like black dress and matching stilettos. The only jewelry she ever wore was the shiny string of pearls strung around her neck. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown, falling in gracious waves over her shoulders and resting lightly halfway down her back. Her face was painted in neutral colors to equal her expression. Always.

"Will that be everything sir?" Maltravers asked politely, waking Mycroft from his thoughts. Her eyes were still trained on the screen.

"Yes, thank you, Maltravers." Mycroft turned to leave back the way he'd come, considering clearing some of the paperwork that was currently cluttering his desk to at least make his room look presentable for the new arrival.

"Oh – wait, Mr Holmes, I almost forgot!" Maltravers called out from behind him. He spun round and saw she had emerged from behind her desk to hand him an envelope. "This arrived for you this morning." She proffered him the slim piece of paper.

He gazed down at the address printed on the front:

MR M HOLMES

NUMBER 48

TRELAWNLEY HOUSE

OXFORD STREET

He turned it over in his fingers, wondering what was missing when he realized: No stamp. _It must have been hand-delivered;_ he thought and thanked Maltravers again before he resumed returning to the comfort of his cluttered office, wondering who the mysterious letter might be from.


	4. Chapter 4

Anthea

29th March at 10:06am

She stepped down into the mirror room, pausing only to pull her handbag through behind her. Now that she was standing there, she wasn't actually sure what she'd hoped to accomplish on climbing through. This entire scenario was really bizarre!

"Ah, it's about time … Miss Anthea? You're a little late, but better late than never, as they say." The woman was sat behind a replica desk, this time with a working computer. She was typing furiously, attacking the keyword with her long, lithe digits. The room echoed with the sound of the keys click – click – clicking. She stopped for a moment to raise her gaze to meet Anthea's, and for a second the room was silent. Then she started tapping frantically at the keyboard once again and the room filled with the clacking noise of the keys

 _Right, well this is awkward,_ Anthea thought, unsure of what to do next. She looked across at the woman and then back at the mirror-door. Anthea felt ill at ease; she didn't this situation one bit. Whatever was happening? "Sorry, excuse me, but would you mind actually telling me what the hell's going on here?"

Now she had the woman's attention. She stood up from where she'd been sitting at her desk and said; "You really should have arrived earlier you know, all of this would have been made much clearer ten minutes ago…" she trailed off as she reached down to a draw on the right hand side of her desk to retrieve a massive stack of paper that she handed to Anthea. She was still gazing at her like she was stupid.

"Um… what's all this?" Anthea said, more confused than ever.

"This," The woman replied, gesturing to the wad resting in Anthea's arms, "Is your job. You'll be Mr Holmes' personal secretary."

Anthea must have looked muddled because the woman sighed exasperatedly and continued: "These documents need to be delivered to Mr Holmes' office pronto." She waved her arms to show Anthea a door opposite the desk. "NOW!" she said, raising her voice so that it resonated through the room.

Anthea wasted no time in scurrying away, still not really sure what she was supposed to be doing or even where she should be going.

Mycroft

29th March at 10:03 am

After his brief meeting with Maltravers, Mycroft couldn't help but feel intrigued by the mysterious letter. He waited until the corridor was empty and slowed his pace to focus on opening the letter.

"Hey! Hey, Holmes, slow down a minute!"

Mycroft turned to face the source of the voice and was somewhat pleased to see it was Ambrose. The letter would have to wait.

Ambrose Armitage was the complete opposite of Mycroft in appearance. Ambrose was well-built and muscular; he filled his sharp black suit that sustained his reputation of a womanizer. He, apparently, made quite an impression with his slicked-backed hair and cheeky smile and Mycroft supposed that's what made the ladies 'swoon'. Nevertheless the two had somehow found common ground in terms of foreign government policy and had become something resembling friends.

Ambrose instantly matched his pace along the corridor saying; "How goes the day Holmes? Caught any killers yet? What about psychopaths? You're good with those, on account of being one, eh?" Ambrose laughed at his own joke. Mycroft barely raised an eyebrow, he never laughed at those jibes. Ambrose had a very peculiar sense of humor that was for sure.

But Ambrose was persistent. "Come on Holmes; crack a smile for once will you?" Mycroft tried, he really did, but his mouth twisted into a grimace instead. So instead he said; "Not a chance, I'm far too boring for that." He wasn't so brilliant at replicating those sorts of emotions, however hard he tried.

"Well maybe next time old boy, eh?" Ambrose snickered again, his laughter resonating down the corridor. Mycroft forced himself to not be rude. Ambrose was by far the closest thing he had to a friend and he wanted things to stay that way. He didn't want to become like Firth.

"You never know, something interesting might actually happen round here." Ambrose chuckled and, clapping Mycroft on the back, he turned and sauntered back the way he'd come.

Mycroft sighed. _Nothing ever happens to me,_ he thought to himself. That's when he rounded the corner and collided with Anthea.


	5. Chapter 5

Anthea

29th March at 10:05 am

Papers flew everywhere. The man she had bumped into was instantly contrite. "My apologies, sorry I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, thank you," she replied, flustered. The man offered his hand to help her up. _Oh God,_ she thought, _he was good-looking_. He was wiry but managed to stand professionally. He was dressed impeccably, wearing a dark grey suit and matching waistcoat. His hair was a rich coffee brown that fell slightly across his forehead, looking somewhere between natural and styled. As he helped her to stand she glimpsed the deep bottle green of his eyes.

"Here, let me help you with those." He gestured to the official papers littering the corridor.

"Thank you, thanks, again. And don't worry – it was party my fault." She smiled shyly. He returned her smile, but she could tell it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Never mind, no harm done," he returned the pages to her hands and resumed walking down the passageway. He'd walked a few metres before she called out; "Wait – hold on a second –"She waited for him to face her. "Do you know where I might find Mr Holmes? It's just, well, I'm supposed to be working under him as his personal secretary, but I don't know where to find his office…" She trailed off, embarrassed, clasping her hands nervously around the files in her arms.

The man looked surprised for a moment, but then it was her turn to look startled when he said; "Yes. I'm Mr Holmes."

Mycroft

29th March at 10:07 am

So, he had succeeded in solving the case of his missing secretary.

Now that she was preoccupied, Mycroft allowed himself to look at her properly. She was pretty - very pretty in fact. _But she's not here to be pretty,_ he reminded himself. _Besides she probably has a boyfriend, the pretty ones usually do._ Despite himself he couldn't help but notice how her cheeks were glowing, and her hair was still damp from the rain and how she was trying her best not to appear confused.

Perhaps this was Firth's way of testing his resolve, to see how much he focused on his work. Mycroft returned to his paperwork with an uneasy feeling about the new employee.

Mycroft could relax, albeit a little, in here. His office. The walls were barely visible behind mountains of files, paperwork and documents. Yet appearances could be deceptive. Everything had its place. He knew the exact order of every single piece of paper. No one touched his work except for him. And now he was supposed to share his personal property with a woman he had never met! Words were insufficient to describe his frustration.

To distract himself from this horror he recited the order of the current files on his desk: the political agenda of France, Spain and Germany, the current military operations in the aforementioned countries, the upcoming military coup in –

-"Excuse me?" the woman said. "Uh … sorry, where should I put these?" She gently shifted the files so that they were balancing on her right hip. She fixed him with a look that suggested she wasn't all too pleased with her current situation.

Mycroft responded with a look that suggested he was equally displeased. "Just on the shelf on your left, I'll deal with them later."

He sat down in his mauve leather swivel-chair behind his desk and gently massaged his temples. He wasn't sure how long this arrangement was going to last but he certainly wouldn't be able to take more than a few days at most! Eventually he decided to speak with Firth in the morning and find a way out of this mess. He'd at least give her today to prove herself. He glanced over to where she was standing.

Now that she had relieved herself of the weight of all that paperwork she gazed at him expectantly, arms crossed defiantly across her chest. Mycroft experienced a brief pang of panic as he realised he would have to find some way of keeping her busy on trivial matters the entire day, until he could be sure he could trust her. Then like a lightning bolt it hit him.

"Tea." He announced proudly.


	6. Chapter 6

Anthea

29th March at 10:10 am

This wasn't exactly how she had forseen the first day of her new job. Tea-lady.

After Mr Holmes had barked brief orders on the production of his beverage and told her where she had to go to get it and Anthea had complied she'd been told to organise the files from March last year chronologically. _Waste of time much?_ Here she was - Oxford graduate for God's sake - reduced to a job so simple even a two year old could accomplish it.

Swearing lightly under her breath, Anthea forced her gaze downwards to focus on the mound of paperwork in front of her instead of her mysterious co-worker. But every once in a while she simply couldn't help herself. Eventually she came to the conclusion that Mr Holmes was a statue. Every time she found herself glancing up he was sat there, motionless, his left leg crossed over his right, left hand on the desk, resting on a stack of papers large enough to rival hers, right hand holding a very expensive-looking fountain pen. His face was devoid of emotion. A statue.

An hour or so into the monotonous work she realised she hadn't seen him blink yet. _He could be a robot_ , she realised with a start. Immediately she snapped her gaze up to stare at him. Ten heart stopping seconds ticked by before, wait, oh, yes. He blinked. Not a robot then. Reluctantly she returned to her paperwork, really dreading her new job.

After a few hours that had _definitely_ felt like hours had passed Mr Holmes detached himself from his desk and, with a suspiciously thick looking file, exited the room.

Now that he was gone Anthea finally relaxed. She could write unobserved at last! Eagerly she reached into her handbag and retrieved a battered and tea-stained collection of pages, thinly held in place by a patchwork leather cover with a clasp that had once been silver. Her notebook.

Anthea couldn't recall a time when she hadn't loved writing. But with her ambitious parents and high-achieving siblings it was difficult to persue the career of her dreams. Journalism. So she had opted for the next best thing involving telling ludicrous stories to the public: politics. She planned to keep a record of what it was like to work in the secret services and profit from the information with a ticket to the top! Well that was her plan anyway. But she barely had the chance to put pen to paper when the door swung open and Mr Holmes returned.

 _Dang it!_ She quickly slid the notebook out of view under her desk as he strolled past and sat back down. Silence reigned for about ten seconds before he said. "Would you care to fetch some more tea, Miss Anthea. I really am rather parched."

Anthea forced herself to not throw the hefty looking file on Polish foreign policy at his head and replied "Of course Mr Holmes," through gritted teeth. Slowly she stood up from her chair and approached the door. Before she had time to think it through she strutted out and slammed it closed behind her.

A few minutes later she returned with the tea, still quietly fuming. God he could be so infuriating sometimes! He thought he was so high and mighty, just because he had a high I.Q. Before she entered the office she stopped and exhaled slowly. _Calm_ , she thought, _must stay calm._

Wait, had she left the door ajar? She could have sworn she'd slammed it shut when she'd stormed out. Slowly she felt the heavy weight of dread settle in her stomach. Something's wrong, her brain was screaming, get out of there! But her body had other ideas. She stepped closer the door, hand outstretched, clutching the handle, turning it, pushing the door open wider.

"Mr Holmes ... is everything alright? I thought the door was ... Oh my God!"


	7. Chapter 7

29th of March at 1:27pm

Mycroft

The wall shook with the ferocity of the slam and Mycroft found himself concerned for his wellbeing with this short-tempered woman. Clearly she wasn't cut out for the monotony of filing and benign secretarial duties. But at least Mycroft had discovered this unpleasant fact early on - so now he could relay this to Firth and have this woman dismissed.

Now he had planned his next move he felt himself relax. Picking up the thick wad of paperwork still left to complete he settled in his chair, angling his position so his back was to the door. She would enter and he could swivel round, admittedly a tad dramatically, and confront her with his hypothesis. He allowed himself a small smile at this idea just as the door re-opened.

 _Perhaps he should say something to her straight away,_ he thought, _make his intentions known_.

He cleared his throat.

"My apologies Miss Anthea, but I really don't think this situation is working for -" was all he managed to say before he was struck on the head from behind.

Mycroft felt his body crumple to the floor, but as hard as he tried to prevent it he finally collapsed in a rather undignified heap as the world spun in front of his eyes.

He saw a figure enter his field of vision - or it could have been three, his vision was a blur - towering over him menacingly and brandishing what appeared to be some sort of lead piping.

Mycroft heard a voice cry out then realised it was his own. He was about to get murdered in his own office with a lead pipe! But he was far too dizzy to make a joke about that.

"Give me the code!" The intruder spat, his voice muffled by the scarf concealing his face.

"Whaaa?" Mycroft heard himself say, his head still reeling from the blow.

"The code - give it to me!" The man insisted, waving his pipe around threateningly.

"I don't - what code? I don't know anything!" Mycroft pleaded as he tried to obtain something resembling a sitting position.

"You don't have it?" His attacker paused for a moment as if considering his options.

Mycroft tried to utilise this time by cleverly rolling away underneath his desk and running to the door to call for help. But he was thwarted by an ingeniously placed foot on his torso.

"You don't have the code? Well ... you're of no use to me." And the man raised the pipe above his head and brought it down swiftly towards Mycroft's face.

A few seconds previously

Anthea

"Mr Holmes ... is everything alright? I thought the door was ... Oh my God!"

The man in black spun round with a ferocity that was both surprising and unexpected. Just behind the desk she caught a glimpse of a pair of feet. _Mr Holmes? Was he dead?_

Anthea felt her heart wildly beating in her chest as she realised she could be next on the kill list! And now that the intruder had seen her - she couldn't escape!

Her gaze glanced rapidly around for something to defend herself with. Her eyes fell on a paperweight.

"Oi! Who the hell are you?" The bloke yelled.

"The name's Anthea." And she grabbed the paperweight and swung it at the intruder.

Metal and bone connected with a thunk. The man crumpled to the ground with a satisfying thump, the lead pipe clattering beside him. Feeling pleased with herself for having disarmed the intruder, Anthea skipped over his unconscious body to peek behind the desk for her employer.

Fearing the worst she craned her neck gradually revealing ... a very unhappy - but alive - looking Holmes. Slowly he dragged himself into an upright position, his head bobbing slightly.

"Really Anthea," he scoffed "What took you so long?"


	8. Chapter 8

At around the same time ...

Sherlock

Caroline Tillman had had a rather disappointing life. Divorced twice. But no children. Liver all but ruined from an alcohol addiction since she was seveteen. Now she furthered that disappointment by being the victim of a pretty boring murder. What made it all the more disappointing was the fact that Lestrade insisted Sherlock investigate it because he thought it - and he quoted here - 'had potential'. But due to the fact that Lestrade had provided him many an intruiguing case before, Sherlock knew better than to question his methods. Besides, if anyone could determine a crucial clue that had alluded the supposedly 'observant' Scotland Yard, it was Sherlock Holmes.

Reviewing the case notes it still appeared fairly open-and-shut. Ms Tillman had clearly allowed her killer into to her house willingly, that much was evident from the lack of scuff marks on the carpet by the front door. Perhaps she had offered them a beverage of some description or had wanted to discuss the new counter-tops she had had recently installed in her kitchen. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that she was murdered right there in the middle of her kitchen. One shot. Close range. Back of the skull.

What bothered Lestrade was the complete lack of suspects. Not that that came as a surprise to Sherlock. Almost every case Lestrade supplied him was devoid of suspects before Sherlock had investigated further and found the ex-fiancee with a chip on their shoulder or employee with a grudge. Elementary, really. However, so far he had drawn a blank himself. Surely she must have irritated someone enough to want to kill her. Nothing appeared missing from the house, unless something had been removed from the deceased the motive clearly wasn't robbery. She knew her killer, Sherlock was sure of it.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Each time more insistant than the last. Reluctantly, Sherlock glanced over at his phone as it yelled at him from the coffee table. Caller I.D ... Mycroft. Now what did he want? It was lunchtime. Mycroft never called at such an important time ... important for his stomach that was. Shaking his head he continued to pace, drowning out the piercing rings with thoughts of his recent case.

His phone uttered another set of desperate ring, ring, rings. With a practised movement he deftly grasped his phone from the table and raised it to eye level. Mycroft. Again. Probably about some pointless quandary that his people were too ignorant to solve and himself too lazy. With a roll of his eyes he tapped decline and returned his phone to the table. Slowly he resumed his pacing.

The lack of motive was beginning to frustrate him. Why kill a financially struggling woman over 40 with a below average I.Q? She worked as a clerk at a self-storage firm that typically attracted wealthy customers who wanted vaults to store their 'precious' vases and other pointless crockery that only served to gather dust. She couldn't have known anything worth killing for ... could she?

RING! RING! RING!

"Oh for God's sake, Mycroft!" He announced to no-one in paticular as he snatched his phone up and answered the call. "I just want you to know I am actually rather busy at the moment if you don't mind, brother dear, so please desit calling me everytime some stupid government official gets a bullet in his brain!" He finished in a rush, feeling slightly winded now he had expelled so much air from his lungs in one go.

"Oh ... er ... sorry. This isn't Mycroft, I'm his ... assistant, I guess." Replied the confused sounding woman on the end of the line.

"What?" said Sherlock, the reply having thrown him off temporarily. "Where's Mycroft?"

"Well, he was sort of attacked ... I think you'd better get over here. He's been asking for you."

Sherlock inhaled sharply. "I'll be right there."

Mycroft

Now that his vision has stopped spinning and his hand supported his aching head with a freezing bag of peas, Mycroft felt relieved.

Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for his attacker. The man had attempted to regain consciousness several times but once security had arrived that was put to a stop fairly quickly. Mycroft couldn't help but admire their efficiency at the task. With no questions asked they had successfully removed the intruder from his office. Now why couldn't they do that with everyone that he found irritating? His assistant, for example.

Anthea, big surprise, hadn't been helpful. Once Mycroft had settled with the bag of peas she'd wasted no time in laughing at his predicament.

"What's so funny?" Mycroft snapped, attempting a look of distain, but the peas had frozen the side of his face and he was finding it difficult to talk, let alone generate a facial expression.

"It's ... it's just ... you ... you had a bag of peas in your freezer." She spluttered helplessly.

"Yes. It's very amusing." He muttered fiercely under his breath, imaging the guards dragging Anthea from his office.

A sharp knock on the door brought him out of his daydream and back to the real world.

"Answer that would you?" Mycroft didn't wait for a reply as he began the arduous task of standing up, resting his makeshift ice-pack on his desk as he gripped the varnished edges for support.

Anthea huffed and murmured something very unlady-like as she wrenched the door open for the second time that day, revealling his brother on the other side.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft heard himself say, hating how his voice sounded so small all of a sudden.

"Mycroft." His brother replied by way of greeting, nodding his head politely. Was Mycroft imagining it, or did he see worry in Sherlock's eyes?

"Huh." Said Anthea.

Mycroft glanced at her briefly, eyebrow raised. "No, it's just ... _Mycroft_ Holmes ... really? Sounds a bit Victorian to me." She smiled.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and directed his attention back to his younger brother.

"I heard you were attacked." Sherlock drawled, almost sounding bored, as if this were an everyday occurence.

"Who told you I was -" Mycroft stopped short, turning to face his secretary who was very focused on picking her nails all of a sudden.

" _You_ called him?" Mycroft fumed, clenching his fists exasperatedly by his sides.

" _You_ were unconscious!" She retorted, mimicking his tone.

"But still - you didn't have to involve him." Mycroft returned.

"Perhaps I should go ..." Sherlock interjected.

"Yes." Mycroft snapped.

"No." Anthea barked.

"You said he was asking for me." Sherlock carried on, apparently oblivious to their arguement.

Silence decended.

" _What_ did you tell him?" Mycroft uttered, his voice barely a whisper.

Anthea suddenly appeared flustered. "Well ... I ... er."

"I can't believe this!" Mycroft continued, barely letting her speak. "Did you call anyone else whilst I was unconscious? The Queen perhaps? Or one of this city's numerous newspapers to spread the gossip?"

"Well I _did_ call your mother now you mention it ..." Anthea admitted ever so quietly.

For a moment the only sound in the room was Mycroft as he stuttered, struggling for once to articulate an appropriate response, unable to form a word longer than "You ... you ... you ... WHAT!?"

That's when Sherlock started to laugh. Louder and louder until eventually Anthea joined in, whilst Mycroft could only stand there and say "You ... you ... you ..."

Mycroft hadn't even heard the knock on the door until it opened and Ambrose waltzed in.

"Now just what's going on in here?" He demanded, the sharp tone of his voice softened by the broad grin on his face.

Mycroft cleared his throat and regained his voice. "Nothing Ambrose. Have you come to report anything of use? Or have you just come to gloat?"

"No mate, you know I'd never do that to you." He insisted, his eyes glancing at Sherlock but halting at Anthea.

"Ah yes, Ambrose. Let me introduce Miss Anthea. She's ... well she was just leaving." Mycroft began sheparding his assistant out of the door.

"No, she doesn't have to leave on _my_ account Holmes." Ambrose, irritatingly enough, insisted. "I just came to say that Firth wants to see you in his office."

Mycroft willed himself to remain calm. "Stay here." He managed, directing a fierce glare at Anthea as he moved to follow Ambrose out into the corridoor.

"Oh, no Holmes, I'm sure Firth wants to see her too." Ambrose fixed another one of his dazzling smiles as he gestured towards the exit.

"Just ... perfect." Mycroft muttered as he reluctantly followed.


	9. Chapter 9

Anthea

29th of March at 1:42pm

This was it, she thought, she was getting fired after only three hours. New record! She knew Mycroft was itching to get rid of her and given their argument just now, she couldn't blame him.

As she followed the men down the impeccably furnished corridor - no doubt leading to some brainwashing device that would wipe her memory of today's events clean away – Anthea couldn't help but reflect on the unusual day she was having. Was it customary for government officials to be assaulted in such a fashion? Anthea had considered bashing her boss' head in with that paperweight more than once today but she knew she'd never actually do it. So who had Mycroft Holmes pissed off enough to make them want to kill him? She assumed the list was long.

As they continued along Anthea attempted to slow her pace even further to have a better look around, convinced it would be the last time she'd see such a place. The building was like a maze and Anthea found it impossible to discern what direction they were actually headed. Every-which-way she looked was the same: deep brown and green carpeted hallways lined with cream wallpaper, broken in places by portraits of uptight heads of state and famous landscapes of British territory. Every so often she would catch a glimpse of another door and wonder what was happening behind those doors - regretting her own involvement in the business behind Holmes' door. Maybe she wasn't ready for a job like this yet.

Never mind that! The crude part of her mind yelled. Was it customary for government officials to be so good-looking? Mycroft Holmes was one thing, but that Ambrose character was something else. Maybe this was one of those scam jobs or something, where everyone turns out to be actors researching human behaviour or something. But Holmes couldn't be an actor surely? No one could fake being such an obnoxious control-freak all the time ... could they? Even then, Ambrose and Mycroft were like chalk and cheese. Ambrose was broad-shouldered and smiling whereas Mycroft was lean and ... mean.

"Thank you Ambrose. I'm sure I can manage it from here." Mycroft was busy saying, his brusque tone interrupting her thoughts. Ambrose simply shrugged as he turned on his heels back the way they had come, leaving her alone with Mycroft.

Oh nononononononononononononononono!

"Wait here please Miss Anthea." Mycroft grumbled as he raised his fist to knock on Firth's door.

"Why? What are you going to say?" Anthea demanded, furrowing her eyebrows in an attempt to appear sincere.

"That's no concern of yours." He quipped, his intellect as sharp as ever.

Damn it. "Well I want to go in there with you." She pouted, crossing her arms for dramatic effect, unaware she had all the authoritative sense of a prepubescent teenager.

"I have to discuss this afternoon's … incident with him." Mycroft said, his voice clearly conveying his reluctance for his task.

"But I was there too, I saw him – I fought him!" Anthea retorted quickly, certain that this was the only chance she'd get to save her job.

He rolled his eyes, annoyingly enough right in front of her face before sneering his reply. "Fine, if you insist Miss Anthea." She hated the way he made her name sound, as if he was swearing.

"I do." She replied, glaring at him sharply for extra measure.

But just before Mycroft could raise his fist to knock a voice called out from within.

"For God's sake just enter already!"

Anthea was surprised to glimpse a look of embarrassment flicker across Mycroft's face before he composed himself and became stony again as he opened the door.

The office was clearly worth more than her entire livelihood. Dense drapes and posh portraits made Anthea feel out of place and timid. Mycroft seemed accustomed to the level of wealthy décor, which she found strange considering the simplicity of his office by comparison. Shaking her head to dismiss distracting thoughts she instead turned her attention the man seated comfortably behind the very large desk. His whole demeanour fitted the room perfectly, he looked posh and expensive and Anthea felt herself shrink into her heels even further just for looking at him.

"Please take a seat; I want this meeting to brief." The man gestured for them to follow his orders, but not before reaching part-way across his desk to shake Anthea's hand and introduce himself as Firth. Once seated the pair watched Firth, waiting for him to explain their unexpected summons.

But clearly Firth wanted to leave them in suspense for a short while longer as he reached into his desk to retrieve what looked like a flattened mechanical pencil-sharpener. He set it down confidently in the centre of his desk and pressed a small button on the top of the odd device. After a small BEEP the device lit up with a bright red light and began humming white noise.

"I have to take every precaution, you understand, to ensure our next conversation is not overheard." Firth announced warily, glancing at each of them in turn.

The pair nodded their understanding in unison.

"I know you're both intelligent adults so I'm not going to beat around the bush here, I'm just going to get straight to the point." Firth paused for a moment to clear his throat, before leaning ever so slightly forward to utter his next words.

"There is a mole in the British Government and I need your help to determine who it is."

Mycroft

For a short while there was silence in the well-furnished London office, except for the drone of Firth's white noise machine and the gentle, ever-present buzz of London traffic outside the window.

Mycroft wasn't exactly sure what to make of the information Firth had just given them. A mole in MI5? How was that even possible? Mycroft was usually so on-top of these sort of issues before they ever had to be addressed by someone as important as Firth. How had such a problem avoided his attention? He suddenly realised how much trouble they were all in, and all because of his negligence!

"Sir," He began, an apology already forming in his mind, but he was cut off by Anthea.

"How can you be sure the mole isn't one of us?" He secretary said suddenly, "How can you be sure you can trust us?"

Firth seemed to be pondering her question for a prolonged period of time before he conjured a suitable response. "I can't. But I've known Mycroft since he was a boy and seeing as you've been with us for less than twenty four hours Madam, I am certain it cannot be you."

"That's all very well and good, but why choose us, sir?" Mycroft wondered, desperate to not be forced into field work – _especially not with that woman!_

"You are by far my most intelligent agent Mr Holmes, whilst Miss Anthea possesses … certain skills that you simply do not."

Mycroft couldn't be sure but he thought he caught a glimpse of a smile cross his secretary's face.

"Listen now; there's not very much time and I must inform you of the facts of this case." Firth muttered his expression grave. He cleared his throat loudly before continuing.

"Last night, at around midnight, a top secret memory stick was stolen from a secure location at a self-storage firm in Knightsbridge. What I know so far is that the thief was able to avoid the camera's gaze, the numerous motion sensors and disable all the alarms. Which led me to the conclusion it had to be someone in this department – no-one else had access to such information."

"Surely that was a stupid place to hide it." Anthea said, clearly attempting to mask her smile.

"That was rather the point; to put it someplace no-one would suspect." Firth countered. "It was only supposed to remain there for the evening, it was meant to be collected by agents this morning, only by then it was gone."

"What's on the memory stick?" Anthea asked quietly.

"That's classified." Replied Firth tersely.

"Surely it's something of value to our thief." Mycroft pondered aloud, ignoring Firth's piercing gaze as he continued to speculate. "We have to assume they would want to sell it. That narrows it down to something concerning information that is imperative to be kept secret – something like the location of missiles or agent's secret identities or details of undercover missions."

Mycroft was pleased to notice Firth flinch when he had mentioned undercover missions. Anthea had clearly noticed it too as she said; "So a memory stick containing information on who knows how many top-secret operations has been stolen and you want us to locate it based on what exactly?" She almost sounded angry and Mycroft realised he was glad he wasn't on the receiving end of her verbal onslaught.

"Well for a start we identified the man who broke in to your office earlier this afternoon." Firth returned swiftly.

"You did?" Mycroft said, feeling a twinge of pain across his skull from the memory.

"Yes, and it is my belief he is somehow involved in all of this. But I have good news and bad news concerning him I'm afraid." Firth replied, appearing reluctant to divulge any information all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?" Anthea interjected sharply.

"Well the good news is we have identified him as Liam Hartspool, a small time drug dealer living in a warehouse near the Thames."

"So what's the bad news?" Anthea demanded, her expression clearly indicating how she was dreading the worst.

Firth took a deep breath before finally admitting; "He escaped."

"WHAT?!"Anthea moaned.

"HOW!?" Mycroft groaned.

"He was being transported to a secure holding facility when he was able to grab one of the guard's weapons and … we lost three men. I need you to locate him and arrest him."

"Great, so let me check I've got this right … you want us to hunt down a gun-wielding maniac who's killed three trained government operative already, and bring him in with zero training of how to accomplish such a thing?" Anthea cried, her expression demonstrating her clear disinclination for their task.

"Only if it's not too much trouble." Firth replied.

"Are you CRAZY?" Anthea yelped.

"Are you aware of what could happen if this man is not apprehended?" Firth raised his voice, making Mycroft instantly recoil. "We risk losing the memory-stick forever, putting hundreds if not thousands of lives at risk. So I have to ask you, because you are the only people I can trust to execute such a task … only if it's not too much trouble."

That seemed to stump Anthea for the moment. In the silence Mycroft took the time to consider what this would mean for him. He'd never experienced active duty in the field before, although he naturally had considered what field work would be like; imagining himself like James Bond, saving the world from a megalomaniac bent on world domination just in time, whilst cavorting with beautiful women. Now that even a slice of that daydream had become reality Mycroft found himself shying away from the opportunity to live his reverie for fear of the unknown. He just wanted to sit at his desk and file paperwork, was that really so outrageous a demand?

"Mr Holmes, what do you say?" Firth inquired, drawing Mycroft from his thoughts and back to the present.

Mycroft was still deliberating his options when Firth spoke again.

"If it reassures you the memory stick cannot be activated without the access code – something I am certain the thief does not possess … yet."

"Wait – access what?" Anthea burst in, leaning further across the desk in her impatience.

"There is a code required to access the information on the memory stick. The code is known only by a few people – the memory stick would be useless without it. It stands to reason that the person who stole the memory stick is one of the few who know the code. That's why it is imperative we retrieve the memory stick before the thief has the chance to input the code."

Silence descended as Firth's last statement sank in.

"Please … I can't trust anyone else." Firth implored gently, trying to keep his voice steady. It occurred to Mycroft just how much trouble they were in, and would be in with the memory stick in the hands of an enemy of the country. Just this once could he rise to the challenge and become the hero he'd always aspired to be?


	10. Chapter 10

Anthea

They exited the office in silence. Although Anthea was glad she hadn't been fired but now she had a whole new problem to deal with: Working with Mycroft Holmes for goodness knows _how long_ to find a mole that was goodness knows _where_ and was capable of goodness knows _what_! And of top of that she had to find time to get her laundry done. Life seemed to be a never-ending spiral of awful surprises, but then again, maybe she'd have fun.

"I hope you remembered the way we came, I'm afraid you'll need to navigate your way back to my office." Remarked Mycroft dryly.

 _Then again, maybe she wouldn't have fun._

"Whoa, wait where do you think you're going?" Anthea demanded, squaring up to her partner as best as possible considering she was a good couple of inches smaller than him.

Fortunately enough, he seemed taken aback by her manoeuvre so she continued; "You do remember what just happened right? Firth told us to work together to solve the case, so we will. So wherever you're going, I'm coming with you."

"Well actually you can't -" Mycroft began, but Anthea – ready for his excuses – interrupted him.

"No! You can't block me out _Mr Holmes_ , not now we're partners. No, wherever you're going, I'm coming with you."

"Not that it's any of your business really _Miss Anthea_ , but I had intended to go to the toilet." Mycroft quipped.

Anthea felt her bravado instantly deflate and her cheeks burn a bright scarlet with embarrassment. "Oh … well … I … well …"

"If you'll excuse me please." Mycroft excused himself politely as Anthea's brain backtracked in humiliation.

Fortunately enough Mycroft abandoned her in the corridor, leaving her to contemplate their awkward exchange all the way back to his office. When she arrived back she went straight to her handbag and scrambled through it rapidly until her hand clutched her cigarettes and lighter. _Thank God,_ she thought, _I really need one._

Moving swiftly past Holmes' desk, Anthea raced to the window and thrust it open desperately. Carefully she pulled herself to perch precariously on the windowsill prepared herself for a long-awaited drag of nicotine. _Just two minutes,_ she promised herself, she'd have to be careful about the smoke too. The last thing she wanted was for Mycroft to get suspicious. As it turned out it wasn't Mycroft Holmes she had to worry about.

"I had assumed you were a smoker of course," remarked Sherlock lazily from the opposite side of the room.

Anthea was so surprised she slipped off the windowsill. "Jeez!" She yelped from the floor, glad she hadn't gotten around to lighting the damned thing or else she'd be sporting burn marks as well as a severely bruised behind.

"You could have coughed or something, God!" She muttered angrily from the floor, having realised she'd laddered her tights in the process.

"Forgive me, I hadn't realised how unobservant you are, Miss … Anthea, isn't it?" He quipped, managing to be polite yet rude at the same time. _Just like his brother,_ Anthea realised. _Oh God what had she gotten herself into?_

A moment of silence passed between them before he spoke again. "Do you need any help?"

"No, _thank you_ ," Anthea practically spat. "I can manage just _fine_ without any more help from you."

Sherlock raised his hands as if to say _'As you wish'_ , leaving Anthea to climb to her feet, admittedly in an undignified manner.

"So, you're working with my brother then," Sherlock said, adjusting the sleeves of his blazer to avoid having to look at her awkward ascent.

"Sadly, yes." She replied, reluctantly returning the unused cigarette and lighter to her bag.

"Well, you're not the first, and you certainly won't be the last." He remarked cryptically, having finished amending his jacket he'd moved to his brother's desk and proceeded to move each item a centimetre out of place.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asked, intrigued by the air of mystery surrounding his last statement.

"Oh … nothing." He replied absentmindedly, determined to move a hefty looking stack of papers just a little to the left.

Anthea moved closer to perch gently on the edge of the desk as she posed her next question. "Tell me ... I won't be the last what?"

"Well, let's just say; you wouldn't be the first secretary he put in mortal danger." Sherlock muttered, contrasting his statement completely with a wide grin that didn't seem truthful.

"You can't be serious." Anthea replied, holding back a snide comment at his failed attempt to scare her.

Sherlock didn't say anything. Instead he practised flicking Mycroft's desk light on and off and on and off.

So Anthea tried a different tack. "What's so dangerous about Mycroft? He's a glorified pen-pusher for God's sake! What could he have possibly done to put people in danger?"

Still Sherlock refused to provide an answer to her questions, focusing all his attention on hiding the paperclips.

"You know what I think?" Anthea continued, desperate to fill the silence with something – anything. "I think you're jealous! You're brother has a well-paid, comfortable job and you're … you're just jealous!"

"That's interesting." Was all he said in response.

"What's so interesting?" Anthea demanded, almost at the end of her tether with this man.

"You're defending him … hardly the behaviour of someone who dislikes their employer." Now he'd chosen to sit behind the desk, spinning himself from left to right tauntingly, as if he was daring her to stop him.

There had to be a limit for the amount of smart-arse stuff this guy could come out with.

"I don't fancy your brother if that's what you're implying." She replied; fixing him with a look that she hoped would get him to shut up. But either he didn't see it or he chose to ignore it.

"I wasn't implying anything." Sherlock retorted, holding the desk to stop spinning, as he looked directly at her with his piercing blue eyes.

Anthea had to employ an immense amount of self-control to stop her from punching his smug face. "I don't think Mycroft would appreciate you moving his stuff" She said instead.

"Smooth change of subject." He taunted mockingly.

Anthea was ready to really tear into him when the door opened and Mycroft entered. He seemed surprised to find his brother there, but barely glanced Anthea's way apon entering.

"There's really no need for you to hang around on my account, brother dear." He derided, seemingly irritated by Sherlock's presence at his desk.

"Nonsense, you know how deeply concerned I am for your wellbeing." Sherlock replied smoothly, standing up as if on cue and moving towards the exit.

Mycroft's response sounded a lot like "I know." But Anthea was too far away to be certain.

She watched as the brothers avoided each other's movements; Sherlock obviously moving along the outside of the room and Mycroft stepping along the opposite side in an attempt to evade his younger sibling. Mycroft slowed his pace as he approached his desk.

"Oh dear." He muttered, fingers instantly outstretched and manipulating each object precisely to reverse his brother's arrangements.

Anthea caught a glimpse of Sherlock smiling before he donned his coat and moved towards the door before something stopped him.

"What's this?"

"Sherlock, I think you've done enough for today, thanks all the same." Mycroft answered, still focused on adjusting everything on his desk.

"Mr M Holmes … Number 48 … Trelawnley House … Oxford Street." Sherlock read, having bent down to collect the unopened letter that had been confused with Anthea's paperwork when they had collided in the corridor. Now it was tightly grasped in the younger brother's hand.

"Obviously hand-delivered … male sender … wonder what's inside." He eagerly reached to rip the envelope before it was snatched from his clasp by his brother.

"But it's addressed to me, so I suppose you'll have to keep wondering." Mycroft jested, glancing down at the mysterious letter in his hand, having forgotten about it since.

"But _I_ found it so _I_ should be the one to open it." Sherlock retorted, attempting to seize the letter. Unfortunately Mycroft was taller and waved it high in the air above their heads out of the younger Holmes' reach.

"Careful – or you'll tear it!" Anthea tried, put her pleas fell on deaf ears.

"Stop it Sherlock! Leave it alone! This is official government business – let go!" Mycroft yelped as Sherlock snatched at the letter and an awkward tug-of-war ensued between the brothers. Anthea flinched as she watched the brothers awkwardly compete for the letter; Sherlock trying to reach up and grab the envelope whilst Mycroft's tactic was to swat his hands away and threaten him.

"Don't rip – oh … forget this!" Anthea sighed, and planting her feet firmly on Mycroft's desk, she reached neatly between them and plucked the letter clean from their petty squabble.

For a moment they seemed surprised to realise she was still in the room. Not recognising they were still a tangle of limbs Anthea coughed politely and they stepped swiftly apart.

"I'm opening this." She announced, and not waiting for them to protest, carelessly ripped the envelope.

"What does it say?" Sherlock demanded almost instantly.

"Nothing – its complete gibberish!" Anthea wailed, exhausted by the whole endeavour.

"I highly doubt that." Mycroft insisted, extending his hand for the letter. After a moment's deliberation Anthea handed over the paper, reading its handwritten contents aloud over Mycroft's shoulder.

"O HUP I HUP A TUP E YUP O U TUP O BUP E NUP O SUP E E SUP E VUP E RUP … see? Gibberish!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Mycroft replied smugly. "It's obviously a cipher, the most basic of its kind; the pig."

"Wait, what?" Anthea asked, more confused than before.

"Basically every vowel stands alone and every consonant is followed by 'up', it's elementary really." Sherlock interjected, determined to redeem his earlier embarrassment at the hands of his brother.

"That's exactly what I was about to say, Sherlock thank you." Mycroft retorted.

"Hold on … so that means the sentence now reads; OH I HATE YOU TO BE NO SEE SEVER." Anthea realised. "But that still doesn't make any sense!"

"You mean you didn't realise what you just said." Sherlock jibed.

"Be polite Sherlock. Just give her a chance." Mycroft reminded him gently.

Anthea felt under-pressure to come-up with an intelligent response. "Er … well … I, um … think that it may need to be rearranged?"

The blank stares told her she needed to rethink her answer.

"Read it aloud again." Mycroft suggested, looking at her with encouragement, not realising how patronising he sounded.

"Okay; OH I HATE YOU TO BE NO SEE SEVER … wait that sounds like … no … surely it can't be!"

"Have you got it yet?" Sherlock sounded impatient, he was tapping his foot eagerly on the ground, and Anthea felt even more stupid.

"Is … is it a number?" She questioned softly.

"Finally!" Sherlock exhaled loudly, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand as he regarded Anthea as though he didn't believe she was completely stupid.

"See? I knew you could do it!" Mycroft clapped her clumsily on the back and quickly dropped his gaze when she smiled at him.

"Yeah, every other word is a number, so OH is zero … HATE is eight … TO … well that's obvious … NO is zero again and SEVER is seven. Did I get it right?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, seemingly excited by her code-cracking skills. "So OH I HATE YOU TO BE NO SEE SEVER becomes 08207 numerically. But with the additional letters is: 0I8U2B0C7. My guess? This is a password."

Anthea watched recognition cross Mycroft's face then disappear just as quickly.

"Mycroft?" She inquired, knowing he'd thought of something important. "What is it? What have you realised?"

Sherlock glanced at his brother quickly, clearly listening intently to his explanation, but wanting to conceal his interest focused instead on the paper.

"Nothing … it's just … the missing memory stick needs a passcode … Firth was concerned his office might be bugged wasn't he? So what's the only logical way he could tell us the code to activate the memory stick without literally telling us?"

" _He_ sent the letter!" Anthea gaped, as realisation set in. "He wrote it to tell you the code! He's trying to help us without getting actively involved."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by this latest revelation, but said nothing. Instead he leaned back to rest on the desk, zoning out.

"Yes and now that we have the code we have the upper hand." Mycroft whispered, conscious of his brother's presence. "All that's left to do is find the ware house, find our small time drug dealer and arrest him. Then things can go back to the way they were before all this mess."

Anthea tried to not feel offended by his words. Why was she so bothered that he didn't want her around?

"Sounds great." She said, reaching for her handbag. "The quicker this is over with the better." She added brusquely.

"I trust you can see yourself out, Sherlock." Mycroft inquired, collecting his coat from a hook behind the door.

"Caroline Tillman." Said Sherlock.

"Who's she?" Anthea jumped on this new avenue of investigation immediately, needing a distraction from Mycroft's contemptuous attitude.

"She used to work at a self-storage firm in Knightsbridge."

"Used to?" Anthea asked, dreading the answer.

"Yes. She's dead." Sherlock replied, completely devoid of emotion.

"I see. And what does that have to do with the code?" Mycroft asked tersely, clearly itching to leave – he'd grabbed an ivory handled umbrella and was twisting it between his fingers impatiently.

"Geez … cold-hearted much?" Anthea grumbled.

"Stolen memory stick …correct me if I'm wrong, brother dear, but don't the government try to be clever and hide top secret information in not-so-top-secret-security-firms as some sort of attempt at a double bluff?" Sherlock sneered at his sibling's slowness.

Mycroft responded by blinking rapidly as if in disbelief at this latest revelation.

"So it seems as if you'll be needing my help on this one." Sherlock smiled coldly as he tied his navy blue scarf tightly around his neck and held the door open for them.

"Bloody brilliant." Mycroft muttered as he followed his brother's direction and exited the office.

Sherlock glanced at Anthea briefly and said, "Come on then; we haven't got all day!"


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft

From outside the warehouse hardly looked welcoming. Rust had aged the metal support beams that barely helped to hold the roof aloft. Now it just sagged pathetically, threatening to cave in on its inhabitants. Thick stems of ivy had winded their way throughout the building's crumbling brickwork, squeezing into every nook and cranny. Where there had once been windows there now stood jagged pieces of glass standing guard haphazardly instead. Suspicious-looking darker patches were spaced around the ground, suggesting the warehouse had once been home to some sort of petroleum based products.

Now it was home to a potential enemy of the state. And for some reason Mycroft was yet to fathom, it was their job to investigate it. It was hard to believe that the entire country's future could be controlled by whatever laid in wait inside.

At least finding the warehouse hadn't been difficult. A quick scan of the registry told them all they'd needed to know about Mr Liam Hartspool, drug lord in training. The warehouse was their best bet of locating him swiftly and efficiently. If only he'd bothered to show up, then Mycroft would refrain from 'sulking' as Anthea had so eloquently put it.

"I am not sulking." He'd insisted when she'd joked about it for the first time. "It's just not my idea of a good day at work – sitting in some dingy alleyway in the rain, whilst casually hoping some minor druggy ventures across our path so I can arrest him."

Mycroft had noticed Sherlock flinch when he'd uttered the words "minor druggy" but was too stubborn to care. Or apologise.

Fortunately he'd thought to bring binoculars. They were in for a long stakeout. Prolonged exposure to his brother – not to mention that infuriating secretary Firth had insisted work with him – was likely to drive him crazy before they had a chance to apprehend anyone.

Anthea

Ten minutes into their stakeout it started to rain. Fortunately enough, Mycroft had his umbrella. The rain made soft-sounding pitter-patter noises as it hammered down on them.

"So come on them," Anthea began. "We've need to find some way to stop us from dying of boredom. Got any ideas?" But Mycroft appeared to be ignoring her.

"Oi!" She said, shoving his shoulder. "Are you even listening to me?"

He glared at her sharply. "For your information I am listening." She waited for him to continue but instead he took up those bloody binoculars again. Anthea forced herself to stay calm. She'd just have to try another tact.

"So … why don't we play a game?"

Mycroft didn't even bother to reply, he just gave her a look as if to say; I'd rather die. Anthea quickly retorted with a look that suggested if you don't do it I'll kill you. Gladly. It was a look she'd spent years perfecting. Mycroft's response was a deep sigh which Anthea took as a very reluctant 'fine'. Smiling now, she turned her body just a fraction so she could see his face.

"We could play … I-spy? That way we'd be doing something productive." She suggested.

"How about we don't." He replied curtly.

Anthea sensed she was losing him so rather than punching him, like she wanted to, she said; "Okay, well … What about twenty questions?" She grinned in an attempt to seal-the-deal. But instead of the snide comment she'd been expecting Mycroft said; "What's that?"

Anthea shook her head in disbelief. "Wait, you've never played twenty questions before?"

She glanced at Sherlock but he had the same blank expression. She had to stop herself from laughing.

"Did you even have a childhood?" She grinned in the knowledge that she was more educated in something than him.

"I doubt whether that's a relevant factor." Mycroft replied offishly and resumed his gaze through the binoculars. Anthea realised she'd embarrassed him, and although she wasn't sure why, she felt rather guilty for it. She hadn't meant to make him feel bad.

Movement out of the corner of her eye distracted her briefly. It was Sherlock. He was pacing rapidly back and forth on the same three feet of asphalt.

 _Oh God._ Anthea thought, _his mind has finally snapped._

Sherlock

"Well clearly just sitting around is getting us no-where." The younger Holmes announced, mid turn. "I propose we investigate inside, that way we'll know if we're actually wasting our time here."

"Absolutely not!" Mycroft replied authoritatively. "God knows what the man in there is capable, but seeing as he confronted three armed and trained security guards I'd imagine he's more prepared than we are."

"We don't even know for sure that he's in there!" Sherlock retorted harshly. "At the very least we could just spy from the windows, instead of hiding next door like cowards."

"I'm with Sherlock on this one." Anthea ventured, wanting to make her opinion heard. "We have to know if he's there, then we can start to make plans on how to catch this guy."

Realising he was outnumbered Mycroft finally relented.

"If you're happy to just wander in there and get yourselves killed, then by all means; be my guest. But I will play no part in your ridiculous 'Operation'."

"That's fine by me." Sherlock retorted, stooping to collect a radio from the small bag containing surveillance equipment and handing it to Anthea.

Sherlock smiled briefly to himself. Time to get some real detective work done.

Anthea

Anthea was surprised to realise she felt genuinely excited. She'd never been a spy before. Cleaner, Waitress, Receptionist, Nanny, Housekeeper and Secretary. But a spy? _Anthea_ _… the spy? Agent_ _Anthea_ _had a nice ring to it … though …_

An urgent hand signal from her comrade brought her out of her daydream. As spy-like as possible she jogged over to where Sherlock was crouched behind some rusted barrels.

"What have you found?" She whispered animatedly, prepared for whatever Sherlock had to throw at her.

"Nothing." He said simply, "We'll have to look inside. Come on." He didn't even wait for her to agree, just broke out in a run towards the dilapidated doors and slipped soundlessly inside.

 _Curse his athleticism_ , Anthea thought to herself. As she straightened out of her crouch and followed Sherlock.

Inside cobwebs hung like grey rags from the eaves and draped themselves over the rotten wooden support beams above her head. Anthea gazed around the bare space for signs of its inhabitants but was rewarded with nothing. Stray lines of hay were strewn around her feet, nothing she wouldn't have expected in such a dingy place. But the lack of any signs of people was unnerving her.

"Hello? Anthea? Come in. Are you there, over?" Anthea could've sworn she almost jumped out of her skin. She grabbed the compact radio and said:

"Yes I am here. I am about to approach the target, over."

There was a brief pause before she heard his response; "Excellent. Radio me with any further news, over."

Anthea repressed a smart-ass retort and took a deep breath. "Roger that sir! Will report back if anything-"

 _Hold on a second? What was that?_ An overturned set of crates had been arranged in a rough circle around the dying embers of a miniature fire pit. Anthea moved towards the ashes for a closer inspection when she heard a metallic CLANG! She was so surprised she dropped the radio.

Fear raced through her veins and for one horrible second it rooted her to the spot before she heard Sherlock yell: "RUN!"

Anthea didn't waste time asking further questions. She ran. But they were waiting.

"Let me go!" She screamed and kicked and writhed but their hands had restricted her movements. She didn't let this deter her lashing out until they shoved her roughly to the ground.

From the floor she watched, helpless as two of them held Sherlock back as a third delivered blows to his stomach and ribs.

"NO!" Anthea cried, trying to stand to fight off their attackers but she was grabbed before she could get close enough.

"Tie her up!" Someone yelled.

Mycroft

He still couldn't quite believe they were doing this. It was one thing to sit safely in his government office and connect these criminals to crimes, but it was another thing entirely to confront them with such concepts. There was every chance this operation could go very badly wrong. Oh God, listen to him. 'Operation?' Where on earth had that come from? He thought he knew. It was Anthea.

Since this morning his ordered life had been turned completely upside-down! And he had her to thank for that.

Now here he was, hidden away across the street with a perfect view into the building opposite, listening in whilst she attempted to challenge a killer. Well, suspected killer anyway – who knew what this man was capable of? Which reminded him, he had to check the radio.

Mycroft twiddled the buttons to contact her. He cleared his throat. "Hello? Anthea? Come in. Are you there, over?" There was a short burst of static before he heard her reply; "Yes I am here. I am about to approach the target, over."

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Excellent. Radio me with any further news, over." The radio hissed again to relay her response; "Roger that sir! Will report back if anything-"

The radio went silent. Dead silent. Mycroft slammed it against the wall in frustration. Now he had no idea what was happening in there. Had everything gone to plan? But then another, much scarier, thought occurred to him; was Anthea safe? What if she had been injured and couldn't call for help, or what if she'd been attacked and couldn't contact him, or what if she was … dead. No, she was smart, resourceful, she could take care of herself. The radio had probably just run out of battery and he was just worrying about nothing.

That's when it crackled back into life and relayed a horrible noise. Screaming. A woman screaming. Anthea screaming.

Mycroft immediately stood up and moved to the window.

"Let me go!"

He tried to see signs of life in the next building but the curtains had been drawn.

"NO!"

He could feel panic start to consume him. She could be dead! He had to do something.

Anthea

Anthea perched primly on the chair. Not that she had a choice because she was tied to it. They had been waiting for her and had taken her unawares. Now; were they holding her hostage to bargain with her, or did they have something more criminal in mind? Sherlock was slumped a few feet to her left, unconscious … the bad guys had seen to that. But she was still awake? What were they planning?

One of them turned to her and gestured to his crony. _Oh no_ , she thought, _what's going on?_ Having been given his orders the man approached with a certain swagger and Anthea thought he was grinning. She was holding her breath when he spoke; "Say something to your boyfriend, pretty lady, so he comes to your rescue." He sounded muffled through his balaclava and Anthea struggled to determine any of his facial features. Fortunately, she was fairly sure he wasn't carrying weapons.

"Go to hell!" She spat at him.

"That wasn't very nice now was it?" He said, reaching forward to grab her hair. He tugged violently at it. Anthea couldn't help it. She screamed.

"That should do the trick." The man laughed cruelly.

His friend seemed preoccupied with something outside the window, he kept peering between the curtains. "Oi Liam," he muttered. "I think we have a problem –"

That was all he managed before the window exploded over him as a man crashed through it. Anthea's captor – Liam apparently - jumped in surprise and turned to face this unexpected visitor. Then she jumped in surprise when she realised it was Mycroft. Despite the perilous situation they were in, Anthea couldn't help but think he looked rather dashing, smashing his way in to save them like this.

Having effectively taken down the man at the window, Mycroft confronted the one holding her prisoner, only to realise he'd scarpered.

"Damn and blast!" Mycroft exclaimed as he turned and noticed Anthea still tied to the chair.

"You took your time." She smiled.

Mycroft

Together they raced to the rooftop, taking the stairs three at a time. They'd followed the all too obvious footsteps of Liam to the top of the warehouse and were preparing to take him down unawares. On the way up, slightly breathless, to the topmost part of the building they started planning their assault:

Anthea had assured him that their suspect wasn't armed, but Mycroft still insisted on proceeding with caution - people can turn nasty when you back them into a corner.

"I think it would be best if we just utilise our element of surprise, we have the upper hand." She'd suggested, sprinting skilfully up the stairs. "He won't know what hit him!"

"That's all well and good," Mycroft reminded her, struggling to master the art of running and talking at the same time. "But we have to remember he's dangerous; we can't be certain just what he's capable of."

As if to demonstrate his point, from somewhere up above them a voice bellowed; "Just piss OFF!" Anthea continued unfazed and succeeded in gaining another flight of stairs on the criminal. Now he was lagging behind!

Mycroft frantically tried to increase his pace to catch them up. But they were agile, lithe, athletic and he … he … was not. Eventually he made to the highest point of the building, just a few moments behind the others - although he had to stop to catch his breath and clutch his aching side. It was rather fortunate that he had Anthea fighting by his side. He wasn't built to operate in the field! Brushing these thoughts aside, and feeling somewhat physically drained, Mycroft pushed the bar of the fire exit door and stepped out onto the roof of the warehouse.

Anthea

Finally! She was hot on his tail! After wasted hours pushing pens behind a desk she was finally doing something worthwhile, something that mattered. She felt a gushing sense of pride as she yelled; "Come on Liam, give it up already. You've got nowhere to go."

Liam stopped running and turned to face her. Wow, she thought, that was easy. He stood a few metres away from her on the rooftop. It was a very open space - the wind was whipping around the pair of them and while it raised her hair in wild waves around her head, it only succeeded in wiggling his coat-tails a fraction. He seemed even more defiant out here, clouds had gathered menacing overhead, and concealing the pair of them in shadows; threatening rain, but Anthea ignored the sense of foreboding.

"Come on Liam," she repeated. "It's time to go home." But Liam obviously had other ideas.

"Nah, I don't think so," he professed "Might as well go out in a blaze of glory." And then out of nowhere he charged at her.

Anthea didn't have enough time to move out the way completely. Liam made a grab for her legs and forced her to the ground, kneeling at her side. She desperately tried to twist out of his iron grip, writhing this way and that in an attempt to get free – but to no avail. He pinned her arms tightly by her sides, despite the fact she tried to claw at him to release her. In a final attempt to not die at the hand of some small time drug dealer she screamed at the top of her lungs; "MYCROFT!"

Mycroft

The second he heard her yell his name he sprang into action. Although he had failed to move fast during their ascent he sensed the need for speed now. He rounded the corner of the fire escape entrance and saw Anthea struggling with Liam on the ground. With more confidence than he felt, Mycroft bellowed; "Get your hands off her!"

Liam whipped his head round in surprise, which was enough for Anthea. She forced herself up on her elbows and, now that he had loosened his grasp on her limbs, delivered a rock-hard punch to his groin. Liam groaned half in agony, half in disbelief and curled over, clutching his crotch.

"Hah ha!" She smiled and stood up, carefully brushing the dirt off her skirt. He must have looked alarmed because she went on to say; "Don't worry, I had everything under control."

He seriously doubted that but didn't say so aloud, he simply didn't have the energy. Instead he decided on a different approach. "Is he our man?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's the guy I saw in the office. Although he wasn't exactly wearing a name badge." She replied as she brushed her hair from her eyes delicately.

"Well then, perhaps it's time we –" But Mycroft didn't have the chance to finish his sentence because Liam had recovered from his sustained injury and stumbled to his feet, grabbing Anthea, pulling her away towards the edge of the rooftop, shouting; "Stay back or she gets it!" His eyes were wide and his face was full of malice.

Mycroft didn't doubt his threat for a moment, Liam was backed into a corner with nothing to lose, so Mycroft raised his hands in surrender and took a step back, forcing himself to stay calm for Anthea's sake.

"Now Liam," he spoke slowly, "Let's not do anything stupid. Let her go and I'll ensure the court looks upon you favourably."

Liam laughed, a deep, drawn out chuckle.

"You don't get it do you?" He yelled over the wind, "What they'd do if I … No. NO! I'm getting out of here, a free man. And you're gonna help me sweetheart." He pulled Anthea closer and started backing away towards the fire door.

"Don't!" Mycroft heard himself say as he stepped forward to grab Liam.

"Come any closer and she gets it." Liam yelled.

"Mycroft!" Anthea whimpered, as she was dragged back towards the door.

"Anthea."

"Shut up!" Said Liam, now almost at the door. "It was lovely to see you again Mr Holmes, but we really must be going now."

That's when the fire door swung open, revealing Sherlock brandishing what appeared to be a wooden support beam. "So sorry you couldn't stay." He said as he brought the beam down to meet Liam's head, knocking him out cold.

Anthea quickly moved away from his unconscious form, towards Mycroft.

"Er … thanks for … you know … trying to save me." She smiled shyly.

"Oh … er … no problem." He replied, feeling his cheeks redden. He'd barely done anything to help … how embarrassing.

He cleared his throat and straightened his tie. Enough small talk, they had a job to do.


End file.
